


All Things Are Ready If Our Minds Be So

by 1863



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Bruises, Extra Treat, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Magical Accidents, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 08:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18890584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1863/pseuds/1863
Summary: When Bruce takes a hit that wasn’t even meant for him, Clark has trouble understanding why.





	All Things Are Ready If Our Minds Be So

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Panny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Panny/gifts).



One moment, Clark has everything under control and the next, all hell breaks loose. 

He hears Bruce shouting something—their comms had been fried as soon as they entered the temple—and Clark turns towards the sound of his voice. But all he sees is a swirl of black coming right at him, moving with great purpose and speed, and before Clark can even react Bruce suddenly twists, leaping to the side as he yells for Clark to get out of the way. And then Clark can only stare as a beam of blue light—of _magic_ —hits Bruce square in the chest, taking the shot that Superman was meant to bear. 

Bruce lands with a heavy thud, unmoving and silent. The heat builds in Clark’s eyes in immediate response and he looks up, a kind of helpless rage surging through him, hoping to find a target, wanting to _fight_ —but Barry meets his gaze and shakes his head. The metahuman calling himself The Warlock lay dead at his feet, hands still gripping the charred remains of the staff that was the source of his power. 

“I think his sorcerer’s jewel blew up,” Barry says. “After he hit—”

“Batman,” Clark says suddenly, and superspeeds over to check on him.

“Flash? Superman!” 

Diana, Victor and Arthur come rushing in, weapons at the ready, but they skid to a halt when they see The Warlock and Bruce lying motionless on the ground.

“Oh, no,” Diana murmurs, stepping closer. Her face is grave. “Is he—?”

“Alive,” Clark says quickly. She briefly closes her eyes in relief. “No broken bones or internal damage... in fact, I can’t see any physical damage at all. But he’s unconscious.” Clark’s eyebrows draw down in worry. “I can’t wake him.”

“Let’s get him to the cave,” Victor suggests. “We need to let Penny One know what’s happened anyway,” he adds, using Alfred’s codename.

“What about this guy?” Arthur asks, poking The Warlock’s leg with his trident. 

“I’ll take care of it,” Barry says. “We’re pretty close to Central City. I can call it in.”

“Thanks, Flash.” Clark contemplates Bruce’s body for a moment, then carefully picks him up, bridal-style. “I’ll get Batman to the cave.” 

“You need us to come with?” Victor offers.

“Thanks,” Clark says again. “But I can handle it. I’ll let you know what Penny One says as soon as I have news.” 

And then he’s out of the temple and up in the sky, and if he’s holding Bruce a little tighter than he needs to, no one else has to know about it.

***

“Anything?”

Alfred sighs. “I’m afraid magic beams of light that shoot out of a—what did you call it? sorcerer’s jewel?—aren’t really in my realm of expertise.” He glances at the computer monitor, scrolling through the results of various medical tests. “But I have a number of contacts who may be able to help.”

Clark gives him a questioning look. Alfred just shrugs.

“The Batman has had a rather… _varied_ rogues gallery, over the years,” he says. “We’ve needed outside assistance to deal with magic before. And there’s one man in particular who should be able to help us, if I can find where he is right now.” Alfred pauses, looking over at Bruce lying on the infirmary bed, utterly still apart from his heavy, even breaths, tubes and wires twining up his arms, into his nose, piercing his very veins. “There's no medical reason that he's unconscious, though. So I've no idea how long he'll be... like this.” 

The worry in his voice is clear and sharp, and Clark swallows when he hears it.

“Alfred,” he says quietly. “It… it was supposed to be me. He—Bruce, he jumped in front of the beam that was meant for me.”

Alfred goes still for a moment before turning around to face him.

“I’d say I was surprised, but I’m not.” Despite everything, Alfred offers him a small smile. “Not even a little.” 

Clark shakes his head. 

“Why would he—”

“Master Kent,” Alfred interrupts. “Perhaps that’s something you should ask him yourself, when he wakes up.” 

Alfred is watching him with an assessing look in his eyes, and Clark is suddenly reminded that he’s Bruce’s most trusted confidante for a reason—very little escaped his notice, whether it had to do with missions or not. 

“Yeah,” Clark says, looking away. “Yeah, I guess you’re probably right.” 

He takes a deep breath. Clark knows it’s pointless to ask; Alfred had just said he had no idea how the magic even worked and it's a silly, childish question besides. But Clark asks it anyway, and Alfred seems to understand why. 

“He _is_ going to wake up, though, right?”

Alfred smiles again, sympathetic and above all, kind. “Master Kent,” he says again. “If there’s anyone who could claw their way out of a magical slumber through sheer force of will alone, it’s definitely Bruce.” 

***

Clark tries to fall back into his usual routine—working at the Planet, visiting his mom at the farm, doing the Superman thing when he needed to—but Bruce is a constant thought at the back of his mind, regardless of what he was doing. He goes over the mission again and again, wondering if there was something he could have done differently that wouldn’t have led to Bruce _still_ lying unconscious in the cave’s infirmary, still unable to wear the cape and cowl. Clark knows that in a lot of ways he’s still a rookie at this whole superhero thing, especially compared to Bruce, but he can’t stop thinking that if only he’d moved faster, reacted quicker, struck harder, maybe things would be different now. 

The League had only met once since the last mission, to let Alfred update the others on Bruce’s condition. It struck Clark then just how strange it was to have a meeting in the Manor without Bruce there, how wrong it felt to even sit at the table and not see Bruce in his usual chair. From the looks on the others’ faces, it didn’t feel right to them either.

Clark tells himself that’s why he’s taken to visiting Bruce as often as he can, dropping by pretty much every day. He just needs to see for himself that Bruce is, in fact, still alive, whether he’s conscious or not—just needs to hear his heart beating, to see the rise and fall of his chest. 

“No change yet,” Alfred tells him now, coming down the stairs and holding a small tray. “But I had a long chat with my contact earlier today.” He sets the tray down on a nearby table. “He assures me that the effects are temporary and that Bruce should wake up very soon.” 

Alfred hands Clark a steaming mug, filled almost to the brim. Clark had smelled its contents as soon as Alfred came through the entrance of the cave—hot chocolate, complete with little marshmallows. 

“Thanks,” he says gratefully, and takes a small sip. Like everything Alfred made, it was perfect. “You trust this guy’s opinion, then?”

Alfred takes a sip from his own cup—tea with cream and sugar, from the scent of it. 

“Oh, yes,” he says. An odd look crosses his face, like a kind of reluctant admiration. “Fellow Englishman, actually. Liverpudlian. He is… _very_ well-versed in this sort of thing.”

They lapse into silence, sipping at their drinks as they watch Bruce sleep, oblivious to Alfred’s exhaustion and worry, to Clark’s anxiety and guilt. Because if he’s honest with himself, that’s what really brings Clark to the cave night after night, what makes him sit by Bruce’s bedside drinking mug after mug of whatever comforting warm beverage Alfred made for him. 

Clark should be the one lying there right now. Clark should have been the one who’d taken the hit. He’s _Superman_ , for god’s sake. Magic blasts or not, he’s the one who should have been protecting Bruce, and not the other way around. 

Eventually, Alfred stands. 

“It’s just gone half seven,” he says, glancing at his watch. “I imagine you’ll need to go to work soon. Could I interest you in some breakfast before you go, Master Kent? It’s no trouble.” 

“Thanks, Alfred,” Clark says, gaze still fixed on Bruce’s closed eyes, on the line of his mouth gone soft with sleep. “But I think I’ll just stay here a little while longer instead.”

***

“Flowers, Clark? Really?”

Clark shrugs as he puts the bunch into the vase that Alfred had seemingly produced from out of thin air. Bright, colourful peonies, pink and orange and white, as suggested by the florist around the corner from the Planet. If nothing else, they at least brightened up the cave.

“What else was I supposed to give a billionaire as a get-well-soon gift?” he asks.

Bruce doesn’t answer right away. Clark glances over at the lack of response and freezes when he sees the look on Bruce’s face: watchful, wary. And very, very serious.

“Why are you here, Clark?”

Bruce’s voice is quiet. Clark can’t tell whether it’s because he expects a lie, or—possibly worse—the truth. 

“You could’ve died, Bruce.” 

“Occupational hazard.”

Clark sighs a little. “That’s not what I meant.” 

Bruce narrows his eyes and Clark looks away again, as though that would somehow make it harder for Bruce to figure out what he was thinking. The world’s greatest detective, Clark thinks wryly. Not exactly likely to be thrown off by a lack of eye contact.

“Clark,” Bruce says. 

That’s it, nothing else follows, it’s not even a question—and yet, Clark still feels compelled to speak, to reveal all the things he isn’t even sure how to say. Bruce always makes him feel a little off-balance, all those masks and boundaries turning into a tangled mess that Clark still has trouble navigating, even now that he considers Bruce a friend. Maybe even _more_ now that they’re friends.

“Why did you do it, Bruce?” he asks eventually. Clark’s voice is quiet now too, and he risks a glance at Bruce on the bed. 

To his credit, Bruce doesn’t pretend to misunderstand what Clark means. But there’s clear wariness in his eyes and the silence goes on for so long that Clark starts to think he won’t answer at all. And honestly, Clark hadn’t really expected him to. But then—

“They need you.”

Clark blinks. 

“Excuse me?”

“They need you,” Bruce repeats. “The team.” Bruce isn’t looking at him now, not anymore, staring fixedly at a spot on the far wall instead.

“Just the team?” Clark asks slowly.

Bruce shrugs. “The whole world, actually.” 

“Right,” Clark says. “Of course.” 

Bruce still isn’t looking at him, and it’s throwing Clark for a loop—Bruce was never shy about confrontation, even if he knew he was likely to get hurt. The image of Bruce in the mech batsuit suddenly flashes in Clark's mind—Bruce's eyes whited out and glowing in the pouring rain, his already imposing build made even more hulking by the thick slabs of reinforced steel. Clark suppresses a shiver. No, Bruce definitely wasn't the kind of man to avoid a confrontation.

 _Maybe it's a side effect of the magic_ , Clark thinks. Maybe Bruce isn't even aware of what he's doing—

“Besides,” Bruce adds, calm and even, “you might be invulnerable but we’ve seen before that you’re just as susceptible to magic as humans are.” He shrugs again. “It was the logical move.” 

Clark just stares at him.

“Throwing yourself in front of a beam of magic that could’ve killed you—or worse—was logical?”

Bruce finally meets his eyes again. 

“Yes,” he says simply, and doesn’t elaborate. His face is guarded, his eyes shuttered. 

Clark sighs again. The conversation, clearly, is over now.

“Well, in any case,” he says, resigned, “I’m glad you’re awake now. And—” Clark hesitates, sensing that Bruce probably won’t appreciate his next words but determined to say them all the same. “Thank you,” he adds, quiet but clear. “No matter what you say, Bruce, you didn’t have to take that hit for me. But you did, so—thank you.”

He steps forward and clasps Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce goes very still under his hand but he doesn’t pull away, and Clark decides that, all things considered, he should probably consider that a win.

***

The wind rushes through his hair and sweeps over his skin, cold and invigoratingly strong. Clark doesn’t have a lot of spare time nowadays, not with the Justice League firmly established and his career at the Planet taking off, but he still goes flying whenever he can. It was one of the things he loved best about being Kryptonian—aside from the ability to help people, of course. Taking off into the sky, soaring higher than any bird, the sun beating down on him unobscured by buildings or trees. There was nothing else like it in the world. 

And it's quiet, too—blissfully so. Clark has been able to control his superhearing for decades now but he still remembers what it’d been like, being a little boy who felt like he was going mad at the sheer, terrifying volume of the world blaring in from all around him. Flying reminds him of how far he's come.

And in more ways than one, Clark muses, doing a wide, lazy loop-de-loop in the air. He thinks of the League, and of how they're becoming more of a real, cohesive team with every mission they complete, how they're all slowly moving towards becoming real friends. Friends who knew him well enough that Clark didn't have to choose between being Clark Kent and being Superman when he was with them—he could be both, he could be neither; he could just _be_. And as much as he loved being part of the League for all the obvious reasons, he also just found being with them an unexpected relief.

Thoughts of the League inevitably turn into thoughts of Bruce. The first one of the future League that Clark had met; the one who'd tried to kill him and the one Clark had tried to kill in return. It hadn't been the most auspicious of starts but despite some underlying friction, there's no denying that things between them are different now. Very different. 

The memory of Bruce lying motionless in the temple comes back to Clark with sudden, forceful clarity and he falters a little in mid-air. _The team needs you,_ Bruce had said. _The whole world does_. 

Clark sighs and flips over onto his back, still doing lazy loops in the air. They might not be at each other's throats anymore but trying to get through all of Bruce’s masks and barriers and booby-trapped walls was like trying to see through a lead-lined door. Clark knows he could just leave it be, but the problem is that he’s seen for himself that there’s more to Bruce than what he outwardly showed, and it just makes Clark want to know more.

He's seen it on missions when children were involved, when the Bat transformed into a symbol of protection and safety rather than one of fear. He's seen it at glitzy events and star-studded galas, when Bruce Wayne charmed socialites into funding Gotham charities instead of buying new sports cars or jewels. And he's seen it when Bruce was neither mythical vigilante nor smirking playboy, the closest Clark has ever come, probably, to just seeing _Bruce_ —the day they'd helped his mother move back to the farm, when Bruce casually said he’d bought a bank just to make things right again.

Clark keeps thinking about the way Bruce had looked at him in the cave, and which version of Bruce it fit best. Too wary to be Bruce Wayne, he thinks, but too non-committal to be the Bat. And then there’s the answer Bruce gave when Clark had asked why he’d taken the hit, why Bruce hadn’t just let Clark do what he was supposed to do and keep Bruce sa—

A distant scream pierces through Clark's thoughts. He comes to a sudden stop in mid-air, ears straining to find the source, and as soon as he's got the general direction he zooms off as fast as he can go.

Clark swoops down into a steep dive when he sees his target—a small apartment building in one of the older parts of Metropolis. The lower floors are already starting to crumble and Clark knows at a glance that the first responders on the scene won't have time to evacuate anyone still trapped inside.

“Gas tank blew,” an MPD officer tells him when he lands. “The blast weakened the foundations, which weren’t great to begin with, and now the whole building’s on the verge of collapse.”

"Thanks,” he says, and shakes her hand. “Officer…?”

“Lopez.”

“Officer Lopez,” he repeats. Clark scans the building. “It’s mostly empty but there are still a lot of people left inside.”

"Most of the residents are probably still at work,” she says. “That's one thing to be grateful for, I guess."

Clark squares his shoulders. "Most, but not all. I'll take care of the people still in there; I can see exactly where they all are. It shouldn't take long but be on standby—I have no idea how long the building will stay standing."

"Copy that," she says. "And, Superman?"

"Yes?"

Despite the situation, she offers him a small smile. "Thank you."

Clark spares a moment to smile back. "My pleasure, ma'am."

And then he takes off, diving in through an open window on the second floor and getting people out as quickly as he can. Ordinarily he'd take the time to reassure them, give them a moment or two to get themselves together before he literally flies them to safety, but today he can’t afford the delay. Clark can hear the creak of metal being forced to bend, the crack of breaking concrete and the grind of crumbling brick, and it drives him to move even faster.

He can only assume his haste is why he fails to notice a section of the ceiling crashing down right on top of him, until it's almost too late. Clark braces himself for impact instead of dodging out of the way—better he take the brunt of the crash than it landing on the floor and damaging the building's integrity even further. He grunts a little as the plaster and concrete smash into his back, big chunks of it slamming into his left shoulder too. But it’s strange—he didn’t expect it to hurt, and it doesn't, but it still doesn't feel the way it should. In fact, it doesn't feel like anything at all. 

For all that he felt its impact, the concrete may as well be cotton wool.

But now's not the time to question it, Clark thinks. There are still people that need to be rescued and he races through the building again, the mission taking over and any thoughts about the ceiling left forgotten in the rubble.

***

Clark stops short when he gets to the foot of the stairs.

Bruce is standing in front of a full-length mirror, examining the injuries that litter his bare torso. He doesn't look up; Clark had literally flown down and hadn't made any noise. He doesn't really know why he didn't just walk—maybe it was the lateness of the hour; too dark to be called morning but too close to dawn to still seem like night. Or maybe it was just being the cave. He hasn’t been down here since Bruce had recovered and now it feels a little odd, like he’s trespassing in a place he never really belonged in to begin with. 

Clark lands with a soft but deliberate thud and Bruce glances up at the sound. He freezes for a second, something like apprehension on his face, before the expression smooths out again. He’s wearing the bottom half of the undersuit and nothing else, the top half in a crumpled heap on the floor beside him, along with the batsuit proper. 

Bruce resumes checking the damage on his shoulder. It’s covered in a mess of bruises, black and purple and blue, as is most of his back. 

"It's late, Clark."

The sound of Bruce’s voice makes Clark jump a little, despite it being so soft.

"Sorry," he says quickly. "Alfred let me in, I didn’t mean to—"

Bruce suddenly hisses, a barely-there spasm passing through his body when his fingers press too hard against his collarbone.

Clark is looking past the bruises and through the skin before he even realises what he's doing, going still as he scans Bruce's bones. After what happened with The Warlock, he isn’t taking any chances. 

"I know what a broken bone feels like Clark," Bruce says. "It's just bruising."

Clark blinks, vision going back to normal.

"Sorry," he says again, and doesn’t bother denying what he’d been doing. "Reflex," he adds, a little helplessly. 

An angry Bruce, a Bruce focused on a mission, even the smirking playboy mask of Bruce Wayne—all of those Clark could deal with. But this Bruce—the quiet, contemplative one, the one who was more human than the Bat and yet somehow more intimidating at the same time—this was a version that still made Clark vaguely uneasy.

There's the barest flicker of amusement in Bruce's eyes when he meets Clark’s gaze in the mirror. He opens his mouth but pauses, seemingly changing his mind about what he was going to say. 

"What are you doing here, Clark?" he asks instead.

"It was on the news," Clark replies, watching as Bruce starts applying some kind of oil to his many, many bruises. "What happened earlier. I just wanted to see if I could help at all."

"Reflex?" Bruce asks, bland.

"I didn’t mean to intrude," Clark says, a little more firmly than he'd intended. The whole League knew that Bruce was territorial about his city; none of them would ever swoop in without permission, least of all Clark. But he's not going to apologise for wanting to help, or for worrying about Bruce's wellbeing. Not after what happened at the temple. "I can go if you want me to."

Bruce sighs. He grimaces a little too, swaying forward, the deep breath clearly causing him pain. And again Clark moves on instinct, racing over and pressing a steadying hand against Bruce's bare back. Bruce goes still at the touch, but Clark can't tell if it's because he's angry or because he's just surprised. And then Bruce meets his eyes in the mirror again, a flicker of heat in the blue, and Clark has to wonder if he's gone still for a different reason altogether.

"Let me help?" Clark asks, watching Bruce watch him. “It’s the least I can do,” he adds, “after what you did for me.”

Bruce stares for a moment longer before nodding, just once. Wordlessly, he passes Clark the small bottle of oil he'd been using.

“Are you sure you should be patrolling already?” Clark asks, pouring a little into his palm before rubbing his hands together to warm it up. “You only woke up a few days ago.” He can’t keep the worry out of his voice, even though he’s pretty sure Bruce won’t want to hear it.

“I’m fine.”

Clark pointedly looks at the mess of bruises on his torso.

“I’m fine enough to patrol,” Bruce amends. “I’ve trained to fight even I'm when injured.” Despite the strange tension in the air Clark has to laugh a little at his response. Prepared for everything, Clark thinks. Bruce was just so… _Bruce_ , sometimes.

"This okay?" Clark asks, as he starts smoothing his palms over Bruce's shoulders and back. His voice has gone quiet—intimate, almost. For some reason, it doesn’t seem appropriate to speak much louder than a whisper.

There's no answer, but Clark can feel Bruce's muscles shifting beneath his hands as he works the oil into Bruce's skin. The air becomes thick with the scent of it, a heady, resinous smell that's not unpleasant but still makes Clark feel a little light-headed. It's the only excuse he has when his fingers accidentally push in a little too hard, until Bruce's breath hitches in pain.

"Sorry!" Clark exclaims, mortified, but Bruce just shakes his head.

"No," he says, the smallest hint of strain in his voice. "It's fine. It's—" He licks his lips. "It's good."

And now Clark is the one whose breath stutters in his chest, staring at their reflections in the mirror as Bruce's heart starts beating almost imperceptibly faster. One of Clark's hands is still on Bruce's bare waist, his whole back gleaming faintly with oil and taut with renewed tension, and Bruce has his head bowed, mouth pressed into a thin, flat line. 

“Is it?” Clark asks, unable to stop himself.

Bruce takes another deep breath. One long inhale, one carefully controlled exhale. It seems to take a lot longer than it should.

“Thank you for your help, Clark.” 

Bruce’s voice is calm and polite, as distant as the absolutely shuttered look in his eyes. This is how he speaks to total strangers and Clark recognises it for what it is—a door slamming shut in his face.

Bruce takes a step away from him before bending down to pick up the rest of his suit off the floor. He shows no outward sign of discomfort at all, not even the barest twitch of muscle, moving as easily and purposefully as he always does. If Clark couldn’t see the bruises, if he hadn’t looked beyond them and seen the damage underneath the skin too, he wouldn’t have been able to tell that Bruce was injured at all. The amount of self-control it must take for Bruce not to show any sign of the pain he’s in—

“No problem,” Clark says. “I need to get going, though. There’s a—a thing. At the Planet.” 

—Clark has no right to make it last longer than it has to. If Bruce wanted him to leave then Clark will leave as soon as he can, and make it seem like his own idea to boot.

Bruce cuts him a glance. Their eyes meet, just briefly, but it’s enough to confirm that Bruce knows exactly what Clark is doing.

“I see.” Bruce starts checking the contents of the batsuit’s utility belt. “Give my regards to Perry and Lois.” 

“I will,” Clark says. He hesitates, then adds, “Take care of yourself, Bruce.” 

Bruce goes still for a moment. 

“I always do, Clark.”

***

“Master Kent.” Alfred looks up from the the tablet he’d been working on. “You’re leaving already?”

Clark isn’t surprised by Alfred’s confusion. When Bruce was still unconscious Clark would often stay in the cave for hours. Today, he’d been in there for less than twenty minutes.

“Yeah, I—” Clark clears his throat. “I have to go to work. At the Planet.”

Alfred glances at the clock on the kitchen wall. It’s just past 4am.

“Now?” Alfred asks. Clark just nods.

“Now,” he confirms. 

Alfred stares at him. 

“I see,” he says slowly, clearly not believing him for a second.

Clark shakes his head. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. But—” 

“Yes?” Alfred prompts, when Clark leaves the sentence hanging. 

“Are you sure he should be patrolling already? I mean, I know he says he’s fine and there aren’t any broken bones, but his injuries from today are still pretty serious.”

“Injuries?” Alfred repeats blankly. “He didn’t get injured today.” Alfred frowns a little. “Still, you do have a point, and it’s one I’ve made to him as well. Quite firmly, I might add.” 

“But—” 

Clark abruptly falls silent. If Bruce hadn’t gotten those injuries when he’d been on patrol with Alfred, then that must mean he’d gotten them some other time—when he was chasing a lead on a case, maybe, or just when he came upon some trouble that he couldn’t ignore. And from the way Alfred was reacting, Bruce hadn’t told him a word about it. 

_And neither will I_ , Clark thinks. Despite the niggling feeling that there’s something more serious going on, he knows they aren’t his secrets to tell.

“Sorry, Alfred,” Clark says quickly, “but I really need to get going. Thanks again for letting me in.”

Alfred’s frown deepens, but he doesn’t try to stop him. 

“Any time, Master Kent,” Alfred says. “I’m sure Bruce appreciates you stopping by.”

Clark doesn’t bother correcting him. 

***

“Tell me,” Barry says through the comm, as he zips through the street in a vivid red blur, “why’d we all get called up for this again?” He smoothly comes to a halt and smiles winningly at the teenage couple he’d just whisked out of harm’s way. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to help, but—” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Clark sees Barry gesture up in his general direction.

“It’s pretty clear that Supes up there can handle this all by himself.” 

Arthur, Vic and Diana make vague noises of agreement as they gather around Barry, apparently content now to watch Clark do just that. Only Bruce is still working, swinging down from a rooftop and chasing down a few more strays. The creatures aren’t especially dangerous but they do look pretty horrifying, like some kind of Frankensteined mixture of velociraptor and stick insect.

“You do seem especially… energetic, today,” Diana muses, as Clark takes down four of the creatures at once—one with an eye blast, one by throwing it against a wall, and two at the same time with a single punch. “In fact, you’ve been even more _super_ than usual for last few missions.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Clark says, picking one of the creatures up and flinging it at another. “I feel great.”

It’s not a lie, not really. Physically, he _has_ been feeling great—better than great, actually. Clark never got tired, or at least, not in the way he’s seen other people go slow and vague with exhaustion, but he did get sort of weary sometimes, especially if he’d been expending a lot of energy during missions. But for the past week or so he’s been the complete opposite—wired, almost; too much energy inside him, too much unused strength. He had to release it somehow, and he supposes that fighting the weird dino-insect creatures on his own was as effective a way to do that as any.

Non-physically, though, is another thing altogether. Clark can’t stop thinking about the last time he saw Bruce, in the cave, days and days ago now. The bruises so deep they were almost black, the warmth of his skin when Clark applied the oil to his back. The way he went on absolute lockdown when Clark pressed down too hard and caused him even more pain. 

Clark keeps making aborted attempts to fly over to the cave again—just to check that Bruce’s injuries are healing properly, he tells himself, but the lies seem weak even in his own head. He’s not entirely oblivious; he’s long since acknowledged that Bruce was a very attractive man. The whole world acknowledged that. But Clark knows him better now, knows that there’s more to him than just a handsome face and a staggeringly huge bank account. That there’s more, even, than the secrets of the cave and cowl. And after the way Bruce had reacted the last time Clark had seen him, it’s the _more_ part that’s keeping Clark away.

Diana’s urgent voice yelling a warning pulls him out of his thoughts. But by then it’s too late—one of the creatures leaps up and latches on to him, claws scrabbling at his side. Clark’s skin and the Superman suit are strong enough to withstand the assault but the force of the impact still takes him by surprise, and Clark wheels around in the air for a moment before he’s able to get his bearings again. He’s just managed to free himself from the tangle of the creature’s arms and legs when Diana comes through on the comm again, voice even more urgent than before.

“Batman is down,” she says, and Clark’s blood goes cold. “Medical aid required. Flash, can you—”

“On it.”

In less than a second there’s a streak of red hurtling through the city below. Clark knows that Barry will get Bruce to the cave in a matter of minutes but it doesn't stop the rush of panic in his veins, the sense of helplessness that he'd felt at the temple washing over him all over again. He needs to see Bruce for himself, needs to see his eyes open and alert, to hear his heart beating clear and strong. 

“Wonder Woman,” he starts. “I—”

“Go.” Clark hears the whistle of her sword slicing through the air, followed by the sound of it slicing through things more substantial. “We can handle this.”

Clark is halfway to the cave before he thinks to question how Diana knew exactly what he was asking, and why she hadn’t seemed surprised at all.

***

“Another reflex, Clark?”

Despite the irritation in his voice Bruce still starts to turn away, trying to hide the extent of his injuries. But even if Clark couldn’t literally see through Bruce’s skin it wouldn’t have mattered anyway—the blood on the floor and the rips in the batsuit would have been more than enough to clue him in.

“Bruce—”

He’s cut off when Bruce gasps in pain. 

“I believe I asked you to keep still,” Alfred says. He doesn’t snap but his voice is so deliberately even that Clark winces a little. Alfred ties off the stitch and cuts the excess thread away, pushing a wad of gauze against Bruce’s ribs with enough force that Bruce’s jaw noticeably tightens. “Though I really shouldn’t be surprised,” Alfred continues, his accent even more clipped than usual, “considering I also said that you weren’t in any condition yet to—”

“Save some time and just say ‘I told you so,’ Alfred,” Bruce interrupts. “It’s a lot shorter than a whole lecture.”

Alfred straightens up and gives him a look so stony that it rivalled even what the Bat was capable of. Clark suddenly wonders if Bruce had actually learned the look from _Alfred_ and is faintly disturbed by how plausible that seems.

Bruce just stares straight ahead, not even acknowledging either of them anymore, and paying equally little attention to the fact that he’s still bleeding. 

“Master Kent,” Alfred says eventually. “I’m afraid I need a short break, to get a little air. The level of obstinacy down here is rather stifling.”

“Go ahead, Alfred,” Clark says drily, his initial panic subsiding now that he can see that Bruce isn't in any immediate danger. “I’m sure I can cope. After all,” he adds, “I don’t really need to breathe.”

Alfred gives him a thin smile but makes for the stairs without any further comment. And then, suddenly, he and Bruce are alone.

Clark wordlessly picks up where Alfred left off, gently cleaning Bruce’s wounds, carefully stitching them up like Alfred had taught him to, and bandaging everything up. Bruce watches him with a guarded look in his eyes but stays silent, and Clark has to put considerable effort into keeping his hands steady, into not letting what he’s feeling play out over his face. Because the wounds are definitely not insignificant, and Bruce had bled a _lot_ , and the scent of his blood is so thick in the air that Clark can practically taste it. The bruises, too, from before—the ones on his back and shoulder—still haven’t healed and really, it’s a wonder that Bruce is even still standing.

“He’s right, you know,” Clark says.

Bruce stares at Clark’s hands. 

“He usually is.”

Clark applies another bandage, pressing it carefully into Bruce’s torn-up skin. He sees—and feels, beneath his fingers—Bruce’s muscles tense up in pain, although Bruce himself stays utterly silent.

“You shouldn’t have gone on the mission today,” Clark says, refusing to be derailed. Bruce was good at that—deflecting, obscuring, giving non-answers that seemed like he agreed with you but actually meant nothing at all. Clark supposes it’s an essential skill when you’re a man like Bruce Wayne. Everyone wanted a piece of you. 

Everyone—

“Especially when you’re still so injured,” Clark adds, cutting off his own thought. He shakes his head, even as he smooths down yet another bandage that’s already starting to get stained with red. “I can’t believe that you’d actually sneak out while you were still recovering from The Warlock’s blast,” he says, unable to keep the exasperation from his voice. “I’m sure Gotham can survive a night here and there without the Batman looming over it once in a while.”

“Gotham might,” Bruce says, low and even, “but its people might not. Not all of them, anyway.”

Clark’s hands go still. He has one palm against the small of Bruce’s back, holding him steady even though Clark knows that it would take a lot more than a few scratches—huge and deep they may be—to bend Bruce’s back.

“Bruce,” Clark says at length, “not everyone in Gotham is your responsibility. You know that, right?”

“Of course I know that." Bruce takes a deep, careful breath, and for just a moment, poised between inhale and exhale, he looks more tired than Clark has ever seen him. "But it doesn't change the fact that if my being out there can help save even one of them, then my not being there could mean I’ve condemned one of them to die.”

He says it like he’s describing the colour of the sky or the way the Earth moved around the sun—an immutable fact, a plain truth, and Clark has absolutely no idea what to say in response. What _could_ he say, really, to that kind of—of—

 _Devotion_ , Clark thinks, as something twists a little in his chest. Complete and utter devotion. He swallows and forces himself to refocus on taking care of the rest of Bruce’s wounds. Clark is as careful as he can be—too careful, probably—but Bruce’s jaw still tightens against the sting of disinfectant, at the pierce and drag of needle and thread.

When he’s done, Clark moves on to the still-healing bruises. He says nothing about what he’s doing, just starts applying the oil like he did before. Bruce shows no reaction either, beyond a single, sharp intake of breath.

“All that aside,” Clark murmurs eventually, as he gently smooths his palms over Bruce’s back, “I’m sure half the reason Alfred is so mad at you is because you resorted to sneaking out.”

Applying the oil is oddly hypnotic, a rhythmic sweep back and forth of skin against slick, warm skin. Clark’s hands move across the broad expanse of Bruce’s back slowly, mapping the contours of muscle and bone, the size and shape of his many, many bruises. Bruce’s breathing becomes increasingly relaxed and calm, his head bowed as Clark keeps working the oil into his skin, and then Clark’s fingers accidentally dip below the waistband of the undersuit and Bruce stops breathing altogether.

“What are you talking about?” Bruce asks, after a long, loaded pause. His voice is low and tight, distracted even, and Clark’s face floods with heat at the sound of it, not quite willing to examine what it might mean.

“Alfred said you didn’t get these injuries when you went on patrol," Clark replies, when he's reasonably sure he can keep his voice steady. He isn't quite as successful as he'd hoped he'd be. "The night I—the last time I was here.” The warmth of his hands and Bruce’s skin makes the scent of the oil bloom, thick and rich and heady, and Clark tells himself that’s why it suddenly seems a little hard to breathe. “So you must have snuck out some other time. Right after you woke up, probably.” 

Bruce has gone still under his hands, still and silent, but Clark continues on—with the talking as well as the ministrations. Most of the oil has been absorbed by now but Clark keeps smoothing his palms over Bruce’s skin anyway—warm and firm beneath his hands, the texture a little strange due to Bruce’s many, many scars. It’s even stranger that Clark can feel them but not see them, not unless he uses his powers, because the bruises conceal them all so thoroughly. It’s oddly fitting, for a man like Bruce—that old pains are concealed by new ones but can’t be completely hidden away. They were still there if you knew where to look. _How_ to look. Where to touch—

“I didn’t,” Bruce says suddenly. He blinks, as though a little surprised at himself for speaking. “I didn’t sneak out.”

“I’m pretty sure Alfred sees things differently,” Clark says, assuming that Bruce is just playing at semantics again. “But bruises don’t lie, Bruce.” Clark runs his fingers over the network of scarring on Bruce’s left shoulder, just to feel the raised patterns under the discoloured skin. Not for the first time, he wonders how Bruce ended up with such a distinctive scar. “You know, it’s funny,” he adds absently, distracted by the sensation of it rubbing against his fingertips, “the other day I actually got hit by falling debris on this very spot.” He skims the huge patch of purplish skin on Bruce’s shoulder again. “Right here. And—” Clark stops and frowns. 

Bruce has gone more still than ever; still and tense, muscles taut, breath held. 

Clark brushes his other hand across Bruce’s even more severely bruised back. Bruce exhales sharply, visibly forcing himself not to move.

“And here, too,” Clark says faintly, as an awful thought starts taking shape, a terrible realisation starting to dawn. “Here,” he repeats, with a growing sense of unease, “ _right_ here. Exactly here. These _exact_ places.” 

Bruce says nothing, and his silence is as good as a confession.

“Bruce.” Clark’s voice has gone tight with apprehension. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

There’s a heavy moment of silence before Bruce finally looks up and meets Clark’s eyes. He smiles, but it’s a twisted thing, an ugly parody of what it’s supposed to be. 

“I thought journalists only went after the truth,” he says. “The good ones, anyway.”

Clark stares at him. 

“Are you fucking _crazy_?” he bursts out. 

If anything, Bruce’s awful smile just gets wider. It sort of makes Clark want to punch something so he closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. He’s not stupid—he can recognise Bruce’s bullshit tactics by now; can tell when Bruce is wearing a mask regardless of whether it had pointy ears or not. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, voice low and carefully even. “Or Alfred?”

Bruce doesn’t bother denying it, not now that Clark knows the truth.

“It was unnecessary,” Bruce says instead, and somehow, that’s even worse than a lie. Because to Bruce, Clark realises, it isn’t even a lie at all. “I looked over the research on the sorcerer’s jewel that our contact sent over. It was clear that the effects would only be temporary.” He shrugs, unapologetic, but shifts a little on the bed as Clark continues to stare at him. “Besides, it wasn’t a big deal. It was a fair trade.”

Clark frowns. “What was?” he demands, even though he’s pretty sure he won’t like the answer. 

Bruce just looks at him for a moment, face entirely unreadable. 

“The stone The Warlock used was known as an instrument of torture,” he says. “And there was a particular phrase associated with it.” Bruce looks away again. “The suffering of one,” he quotes, “is subsumed by the other.”

“Subsumed,” Clark repeats slowly. “You mean—”

“The torturer could inflict harm on a victim without anyone even knowing about it,” Bruce interrupts. “Because their attacks would seem to be targeted at someone else entirely.” He pauses, then adds, “Although it seems to work a little differently if one of them is superhuman.”

It takes a little while for it to sink in. And when it does, Clark has to close his eyes against the sudden flood of conflicting emotions—rage at The Warlock, frustration at Bruce, anger at himself for not noticing sooner and sparing Bruce his own suffering. Clark’s own very literal, physical suffering.

“Jesus, Bruce,” Clark finally says. He shakes his head. “You—why the hell didn’t you say anything?”

A long, long beat of silence. 

“I didn’t know what was happening,” Bruce says at last. “Not at first, anyway. I just woke up from a nap before I was due to go on patrol and saw—” Bruce gestures to his shoulder and back. “I thought maybe they were from the fight with The Warlock and I’d been too out of it to notice them before. But when you—“ He stops abruptly. “When you… came over, that night,” he adds carefully, “I knew the bruises were fresh. When you touched them, I—” He stops again. “I knew they were fresh,” he repeats. “I just didn’t know why yet.”

Clark unthinkingly reaches out, sweeping his fingers over the bruise on Bruce’s shoulder again. Bruce stiffens, but doesn’t pull away.

“And when you did realise why,” Clark says, “you still didn’t say anything.” His hand lingers, fingertips brushing along the whole length of discoloured skin and then trailing across Bruce’s chest. 

Bruce goes very still. Clark stops moving his hand, palm coming to rest over Bruce’s heartbeat. He can feel the thud under the skin and flesh and bone, under the curve of strong, hard-won muscle. Clark has been able to lift a tractor since he was a child but he can’t even begin to fathom what it took for Bruce to turn himself into what he is now. What he _willed_ himself to become. 

Human, Clark thinks. Yet in some ways, Bruce is the strongest person Clark has ever known.

“It seemed fitting,” Bruce says.

And the most frustrating, too. 

“I’m not even going to ask why you’d think that,” Clark says. “Misplaced guilt, or a martyr complex, or just a need to be in control of everything—including whether I get hurt when I’m doing my _own_ thing, not when I'm with the League—” Clark cuts himself off and takes a breath. “It doesn’t even matter.” 

His hand is still on Bruce’s chest, and now he can feel Bruce’s heart beating just a fraction harder. Almost against his will, Clark looks up, and finds that Bruce is staring right at him. But he says nothing, just watching Clark in silence, not pulling away or protesting or offering the kind of annoyingly logical reasons he usually would about why his actions were entirely justified. If anything, he seems to be waiting.

Clark swallows. Then he starts moving his hand again, travelling a slow path up Bruce’s chest, along his throat, curling around the back of his neck, before sweeping back down again. Bruce looks away but Clark doesn't stop, keeps his touch feather-light as he barely grazes Bruce’s skin, skimming carefully over the bruises and the edges of just-bandaged cuts, and it’s only Clark’s enhanced senses that let him see—and hear, and feel—how Bruce is reacting. The tiniest of tremors, the prickling of his skin, the faintest flush on his cheeks. His heart starting to race, his breathing going shallow, the scent of—Clark takes another deep breath—arousal and apprehension and shame. 

So much self-control, Clark thinks, with equal parts admiration and ache, staring as Bruce pointedly doesn’t return his gaze. But not even Bruce Wayne—or Batman, for that matter—could control themselves when it came to this, and there’s no way, _none_ , that Clark is going to ignore it. Not now that he's got irrefutable proof right under the palm of his hand.

Bruce might have an iron will but Clark can bend steel. And more to the point—he can melt it, too.

“Why did you do it, Bruce?” Clark asks quietly. Bruce doesn’t pretend to not know what he means but Clark clarifies anyway. He doesn’t want there to be any room for misinterpretation, no loose thread for Bruce to tug at later and unravel anything they might say next. He looks Bruce in the eye. “Why did you take The Warlock’s hit for me?”

For the first time all night—possibly for the first time since Clark has known him—Bruce looks truly, actively stricken. The expression is gone in less than a blink of an eye but it’s all Clark needs to see. 

“Bruce—”

“The team needs you,” he says.

Bruce’s voice isn’t quite steady, and Clark takes a single step closer.

“Just the team?”

Bruce swallows. 

“The whole world, actually.”

Clark takes another step closer, and then another, until he’s standing between Bruce’s legs, bracketed by Bruce’s thighs. Bruce’s heart is thumping harder than ever now but the only outward sign of what he’s feeling is the deepening flush on his face, and the very careful, and carefully guarded, look in his eyes. 

“Just the world?” Clark insists, voice even softer now. 

He hesitates, then brings up his other hand, letting it hover a bare inch from Bruce’s cheek, close enough that Bruce can feel the heat from his palm. Bruce inhales sharply.

“The world’s not enough for you?” he asks.

“No,” Clark says simply, giving Bruce nothing to latch on to, nothing for him to misinterpret or misdirect. “The question is, Bruce,” Clark adds, “what’s enough for _you_?”

Bruce stares at him. Clark just stands still, waiting, letting him look, hand still hovering next his face and not _quite_ touching. And then—

Bruce tilts his head, just a little, but it’s enough for his jaw to fill Clark’s palm, enough to let his stubble graze roughly over his fingertips.

“Nothing,” Bruce answers. His voice is so rough that it almost matches the growl of Batman’s modulator. “Nothing is ever enough for me.” He reaches up and wraps his fingers around Clark’s wrist, but whether he’s holding Clark’s hand in place against his chest or threatening to pull it away, Clark doesn’t know. “Do you understand that, Clark?”

And Clark realises, with some surprise, that yes, yes he does. Bruce never did anything by halves—once he decided on a course of action he was committed to it, regardless of the danger, or the threat. Becoming Batman, building the League. Bringing someone back from the dead. Bruce always went all-in, and it’s not too far a leap for Clark to understand that Bruce would be equally single-minded when it came to things like this. 

“I do,” Clark says. He offers a small, rueful smile. “I mean, I am aware that you can be a little… intense.”

Something lightens in Bruce’s eyes; not quite a smile, but close enough that Clark’s own smile widens. 

Clark weighs the risk and slowly bends his head. Bruce says nothing as Clark’s face gets closer and closer, until he can feel Bruce’s breath against his parted lips, until he can see Bruce’s pupils dilate. But Bruce doesn’t move back, and his breath hitches in his throat when Clark licks his lips, and it’s enough to give Clark the last boost of courage he needs to close the final distance between them.

It’s not even a kiss, not really—just the barest brush of lips against lips and a single, shared breath. But Clark still gasps when they make contact, still hears the sudden uptick in Bruce’s pulse. His own heart echoes that rapid beat and he can feel himself starting to lose control of his senses, everything suddenly magnified: the sound of their racing hearts, the scent of Bruce’s skin, the heat radiating from Bruce’s bare chest.

“Bruce,” Clark whispers. His voice isn’t even a little bit steady. “Bruce—”

And then whatever he was going to say is lost to a moan because suddenly they’re pressed together, Bruce’s legs wrapped around his thighs and tugging him closer, Bruce’s arms sliding around his waist, and Bruce’s mouth—

“Oh, god,” Clark gasps, as that mouth does something unspeakably good to his neck. “Bruce—”

But he’s cut off again when Bruce lifts his head and pulls him into another kiss, and this one is definitely, _unquestionably_ a kiss. Clark’s hands tangle in Bruce’s hair as Bruce deepens it, mouth opening and tongue pushing in. The sheer strength of his reaction would surprise him if he could think beyond the feeling of Bruce pressed up against him, of Bruce licking into his mouth, and then Bruce moves his hips and Clark stops thinking altogether. 

His own hips jerk forward in response and Bruce finally breaks the kiss, panting hard against Clark’s shoulder. Clark instinctively reaches for Bruce’s waist so they can get a better angle, hands running over Bruce’s stomach and sides and—

“Oh, Jesus, Bruce,” Clark gasps, and stumbles backwards. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Wha—what?” Bruce pants, breathless and a little vague. His eyes are glazed, hair dishevelled and lips noticeably swollen, and Clark just stares blankly for a moment, heart seizing a little in his chest.

“Your wounds,” Clark manages to say. “They’re bleeding again. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“What,” Bruce says again, but this time, there’s no trace of vagueness in him at all. “What didn’t you mean?”

Clark briefly closes his eyes. Of course, he thinks. Of course Bruce would be constantly on alert for every hidden meaning, every unspoken word. Of course he’d be skipping ten steps ahead and halfway into a disaster scenario before they’d even gotten started.

Clark opens his eyes and steps forward again. Then he cups Bruce’s cheek without hesitation, bending his head and kissing him with all the careful affirmation that he can. There was more than one way to tell Bruce that they wanted the same thing, and if Bruce was going to take a poor choice of words in the wrong direction then maybe this was the better way to express himself.

One kiss melts into another, and then another, and then several more after that. Despite Bruce’s attempts to drag him closer, Clark never lets it deepen, keeping it soft and careful and gentle, and eventually, reluctantly, Bruce starts to give in, accepting what Clark had been trying to tell him in the first place. 

“I meant that I didn’t mean to make your injuries worse,” Clark says, when he finally pulls back. “Everything else, though—” Bruce goes still again. “I did mean all of that. All of this,” Clark adds, and presses kisses against Bruce’s temple, the corner of his mouth, his bruised and scarred shoulder. “And I hope you did, too.”

Bruce doesn't answer. _Or doesn't know how to_ , Clark thinks, watching Bruce look away again. Unflinching when faced with something that could end his life, yet hesitant at the prospect of getting something he actually wanted. There was something kind of sad about it, and frustrating too, but it was just so very _Bruce_ that Clark just reaches out and takes his hand. And for a gesture that Bruce would probably consider juvenile it feels almost more intimate than anything else they’d done so far.

Bruce stares at their joined hands, at their fingers interlaced.

“I meant it,” Bruce says, eventually. “I do mean it.” He lifts his head and meets Clark’s eyes. “All of it.”

Clark smiles a little. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.” He reluctantly untangles their fingers and reaches for the bandages again. “But first things first—”

He starts rebandaging the wounds that split when they’d been kissing a little too—enthusiastically. The memory of Bruce’s legs wrapped around him makes Clark flush and Bruce raises an eyebrow when he sees it. 

“Stop that,” Clark says, but there’s a smile threatening to escape and he knows Bruce can see that too. “You won’t distract me.”

“From what?”

Clark sighs, serious again. “You can’t keep taking the hits for me, Bruce.”

“The effects are temporary, they’ll be gone in a few days—”

“Then I’m benched for a few days.”

Something passes over Bruce’s face, too fast for Clark to catch.

“You can’t do that,” he says. “The world needs you.”

Clark just looks at him, gaze steady and calmer than he really feels. “And I need you to not be hurt. Not on my account, anyway.”

“I can take it—”

“But I can’t.”

Bruce abruptly falls silent. 

Clark resumes his work, slowly unwrapping the stained bandages and carefully applying new ones. His touches linger longer than they would have before, much longer, fingers gently brushing over Bruce’s skin, wanting to feel his warmth, his strength, needing the reassurance that although he was hurt, Bruce was still very much alive. 

“When you got hit,” Clark says, voice very quiet, “and I saw you lying on the floor, not moving, not responding when we called your name—” 

He stops, staring blankly at the bloody bandages in his hands. There hadn’t been any blood then, at the temple, but in a way that was somehow worse—not having any indication at all of how badly Bruce was hurt. For the split-second it took for his superhearing to kick in and Bruce’s heartbeat to fill his ears, Clark had had no way of knowing whether Bruce was alive or dead.

“You have enough scars already, Bruce,” Clark adds, and hears the guilt in his own voice. “I'm not about to let you bear mine as well.”

Bruce is quiet for a long time. Then he reaches out and pulls the stained bandages away from Clark's fingers, before carefully enveloping them with his own. Bruce's hands are big and warm and for all the violence Clark knows they're capable of, right now they're nothing but reassuring. Still, Clark can't help but notice Bruce’s beaten-up knuckles and tries to remember if he’d punched anything that might have caused the damage.

“Not your fault,” Bruce says, seeing where Clark's gaze is focused. “I got those on patrol,” he adds, when Clark looks up and meets his eyes.

He’s lying. Clark is sure of this, and he’s equally sure that Bruce knows he knows. So his words must have a different purpose, Clark thinks, and searches Bruce’s eyes for the answer.

“While you were working?” he asks slowly. “While you were... on the clock?” 

“While I was protecting the city,” Bruce clarifies. 

“Gotham,” Clark nods, but Bruce shakes his head.

“Home,” he corrects, his grip just barely tightening around Clark’s hands—a reflex more than a deliberate action. Something, Clark realises, that Bruce chose _not_ to control.

“Oh,” Clark says, barely breathing the word out. Home, he thinks, staring at Bruce’s hands wrapped around his own. It’s probably as clear a declaration as Bruce can give him, and really, it’s more than Clark expected. He lifts his head. “You won’t go on patrol until you’ve healed?”

“Until the stitches won’t split,” Bruce concedes. 

Clark sighs. “I guess that’s the best I can hope for, isn’t it?”

“More than Alfred can get out of me, anyway.”

“Wow,” Clark murmurs. “I should feel privileged.”

“No,” Bruce says, so quietly that Clark would assume that Bruce hadn’t meant for him to hear it, if not for the fact that Bruce knew full well that he could. “ _I_ should.”

Clark has to take a moment to steady himself. He gives Bruce’s hands a faint squeeze, echoing Bruce’s action from before, and Bruce takes a deep breath, understanding, for once, what Clark is trying to tell him.

“You know what this means, though, don’t you?” Clark asks. He keeps his voice light, trying to cut through the seriousness of what they've just admitted to, the risks they're about to take—standing on the precipice, ready to take the leap. There would be time for all of that later. Right now, Clark just wants to enjoy the moment. 

Bruce looks up at him, a question in his eyes.

“If you’re benched while your stitches heal," Clark says, "and I’m benched until the magic wears off, then…” 

“What?” Bruce prompts.

“We’re going to have to come up with other things to occupy ourselves. I mean—” Clark licks his lips. “We’ll have a lot of free time on our hands.”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth lifts.

“That’s very diligent of you, Clark.”

“Well, I’m all for self-improvement. And impressing the boss.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “You consider me the boss?”

Clark shrugs. “I could be persuaded to. Maybe. In certain situations.” He lifts his hands and pushes his fingers into Bruce’s hair, massaging a little as he goes—something he's wanted to do, he realises with a small start, ever since he first saw Bruce in the batsuit with the cowl off. Clark can't stop the grin when Bruce unsuccessfully tries to suppress a shiver. 

“Such as?” Bruce asks, reaching up and pulling Clark closer.

“I guess we’ll have to figure that out, too.”

“Mmm,” Bruce agrees. His hands settle at either side of Clark’s neck, not so much holding him in place as holding him steady. “I’ll come up with a schedule for that. A very detailed, exhaustive schedule.”

Clark’s grin widens. 

“Always prepped for everything, huh?”

Something shifts in Bruce’s eyes, a certain opacity dissolving to reveal something new. Clark doesn’t understand what it means, not yet, but he’s optimistic that one day, he will.

“Not quite,” Bruce replies. He brushes his thumbs over Clark’s jaw before sliding one hand down, until his palm is pressed against the symbol on Clark’s chest. “But that’s not always a bad thing, is it?”

“No,” Clark agrees, and watches as Bruce’s mouth curves, finally, into a proper, full smile. “It definitely isn’t.”


End file.
